


We Always End Up Here

by kelios



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, PWP, Supernatural - Freeform, Swesson, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-01 23:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2792390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelios/pseuds/kelios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title: We Always End Up Here<br/>Rating: NC-17<br/>Pairing: Dean Smith/Sam Wesson<br/>I realized the other day (yes, I'm slow) that I've never seen a Smith/Wesson fic where they find out they both have the same tattoo.<br/><a id="cutid1" name="cutid1"></a><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	We Always End Up Here

Dean drops to his knees, gasping. There's blood dripping from a small gash on his temple, but more importantly, in Sam's mind, his shirt is completely red, soaked through. And he's holding is his ribs like they hurt. Sam's beside him in an instant, pulling almost frantically at the bloody material. If anything happened, if Dean died...

"Let me see, let me see," Sam demands, voice low and panicked.

"I don't think it's mine," Dean says, gasping, but he lets Sam yank the thin material up anyway because his ribs fucking hurt.

"Holy shit." Sam sounds stunned, and that can't be good. Dean pulls his shirt off the rest of the way and runs his hands gingerly over his torso, but he can't find anything except the beginnings of some really spectacular bruising.

"What the hell, Sam," he says, relief making him irritable. Sam doesn't say anything, just yanks his own shirt off, which--um.

"Holy shit."

Sam reaches out hesitantly, lets the tips of his fingers rest on Dean's chest--on the black pentagram and sunburst tattoo over Dean's heart, to be exact. Dean swallows hard, a shiver running up his spine. He can't tell if it's because Sam's fingers are warm and soft on his bare skin, the look of awe on Sam's face, or the implications of them having the exact same tattoo in the exact same place. Come to think of it, it's probably all three.

"I don't understand," Dean says, feeling stunned and stupid. "How do you have my tattoo?"

"Dean, I've had this tattoo for over a year," Sam says. He sounds equally stunned, and he hasn't taken his fingers off Dean's chest. He's tracing the design, rubbing the skin like it's going to come off. In fact--

"Dude, it's not going to come off," Dean says, his voice hitching a little. Sam's biting his lip, eyes wide and dark, and it's giving Dean ideas he's not sure he should be having right now, about how those lips would feel against his, and how those hands might feel other places.  "I got it in college, it's been there for years."

"Yeah," Sam says, distractedly. He's frowning, brow creased with thought. "I--Dean, I can't remember how I got mine."

"What?" Dean says in confusion. "Sam, you just said you got it a year ago. How can you not remember?"

"I remember being in the tattoo parlor with all my friends," Sam says carefully, fingers still moving in slow, maddening circles. "We were all a little drunk, we were all laughing and celebrating--something. I can't remember what." He looks up at Dean, puzzled.

"But I also remember you."

"Sam, that's not possible. We just met." Dean really wants to dismiss what Sam's saying out of hand, despite the fact that they'd just destroyed an evil spirit and nearly burned down the building, but Sam continues.

"I remember, Dean," Sam says insistently. "We were in...Missouri, I think? It was a rundown shack, I was sitting at a dining room table, not even in a regular tattooing chair. You were there next to me." He blushes a little, which surprises Dean and sets off a thrum of warmth low in his stomach. "You--you were holding my hand."

Dean just looks at him skeptically. "Man, I know tattoos hurt, but you don't seem like the hand holding type," he says.

"It wasn't because of the pain," Sam says. His voice has gone low and a little rough and that warmth is spreading throughout Dean, like his body knows what that sound, what that tone means even if his brain doesn't. "You had your shirt off, you'd already gotten your tattoo, and all I could think of was how much I wanted--"

"To kiss me," Dean says hoarsely. He doesn't actually remember, not really--it's a tickle in the back of his mind, a might have been that's almost solid enough to see but not quite.

"Yes," Sam says, and the heat, the pure want in Sam's voice drags a ragged sound out of Dean that he isn't quite prepared to call a moan. Sam flattens his hand against Dean's chest, each point of contact like a brand on Dean's skin and Dean leans into it, presses his own hand against Sam's tattoo almost in a daze.

It's like completing a circuit. Sam makes this _sound_ , low and almost wounded, and then he's kissing Dean, hard and desperate. Dean's hands tangle in Sam's hair, holding him tight as lick into each other, then Sam's hands slide down Dean's back to cup his ass and drag him closer.

"Wanna fuck you," Sam whispers into Dean's mouth. He squeezes Dean's ass, fingers pressing between his cheeks, and Dean arches against him, whimpering. He's in Sam's lap, legs spread wide, grinding against him like a teenager just finding out what his dick is for. He can only imagine what he must look like, and he doesn't even care.  "Take you home and spread you out on my bed, work you open slow and easy. Just take you _apart_ , --"

"Fuck yes," Dean says, perilously close to begging Sam to do it right here and now.  He pulls back just enough that they can tug desperately at belts and buttons, and then Sam's hand is wrapped warm and firm around them both, not what Dean really wants but god it's good. The sight hits Dean hard and he moans into Sam's neck, smearing words and kisses over every inch he can reach as his hips shove helplessly against Sam. He closes his mouth over Sam's pulse, sucks hard and fast, hot, dark blood pooling under the skin almost immediately. Sam hisses and holds Dean tight against him, shudders racking his body as he falls apart, his pleasure pulling Dean down with him until neither has any more to give. They collapse breathlessly against each other, hot and sticky and panting.

Finally Dean lifts his head. "That was fucking amazing," he says, unable to help the ridiculous grin he can feel spreading across his face. He feels almost giddy with relief and happiness when he sees the same silly smile on Sam. He stands up carefully, holding out a hand to Sam and grimacing a bit at the mess.

"I still want to know what's going on," Sam says quietly, as they start to get dressed. They use Sam's shirt to clean up, which leaves both of them walking out shirtless, but it's not like they have much choice. Luckily this area doesn't get much foot traffic after dark, and the car isn't far away.

"I do too," Dean agrees. "I don't know why you remember more than I do, but I think it's pretty clear something's messing with our heads." He smiles up at Sam again, feeling that same surge of happiness when Sam smiles back. "But whatever it is, we'll figure it out together. Now come on. We've got work to do."  


There's a shadowy figure in the corner, but neither Sam nor Dean notices him as they exit the building. The figure stays behind for a few moments, until the last hushed whispers die out and their quiet laughter fades away. Then, he's just...gone.


End file.
